Slaves to Armok: God of Blood Chapter III: Perpetual Motion Effect
by Emperor Vladislav
Summary: This is a crossover fanfiction. All craftsdwarfship is of the highest quality. It depicts the life of Urist Emärzuden, 'Animalkeeper', in the days leading up to and during the Reaper War. The prose is humorous and filled with referrences. Overall, the writing is acceptable
1. Chapter 1

**What's this? A** _ **Slaves to Armok: God of Blood Chapter II: Dwarf Fortress/Mass Effect crossover? I know, It's stupid. That's why I like it.**_

 _ **Those familiar with me already know that I update infrequently. You want frequent updates? Fuck you! I can write and shit! Can you write? Fuck no! That's why you're complaining about infrequent updates. Just write your own fanfic of my fanfic, if you want it to frequently update!**_

 _ ** _ **Mass Effect belongs to Bioware and EA, and costs some good money.**_**_

 _ ** _ **Slaves to Armok: God of Blood Chapter II: Dwarf Fortress belongs to Tarn and Zach Adams, and it's freeware.**_**_

* * *

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock,...

Trrr-click, trrr-click, trrr-click, trrr-click, trrr-click,...

Cha-chuck, cha-chuck, cha-chuck, cha-chuck, cha-chuck,...

The sounds of cogs turning, grinding against each outher, loud despite being freshly oiled, filled the corridors of Nïr Iroludos, 'Land of Northman', the newest addition to the starfleet of Idithboshut, 'The Systemic Alliance'. Within her halls, dwarves scurried about, dilligently performing their tasks. The Combat Information Centre on the frigate's top deck was buzzing with dwarven speech. One dwarf was happily humming a song, to the rhythm of the gears. Another was grumbling about the weather. Another still was so focused with her task, that the computer console in front of her was the only thing she saw.

Thus, that last dwarf was completely unaware of the fact that the door leading to the lower deck behind her had opened with a loud sound of grinding metal gears, and that a dwarf wearing adamantine armour had entered the deck. He was stocky and round. His hair was clean-shaven. His sideburns were tied into braids. His long mustache was neatly combed. His beard was tied into a braid. He had a scar running over his round left cheek, his wide nose and his slightly protruding forehead. His hair was raven-black. His eyes were silver. His skin was bronze. He was wearing a suit of steel armour. All craftsdwarfship was of the highest quality. On the item, there was an inscription in gold. It read 'N7', in dwarven runes. It menaced with spikes of gold. He was also armed with a steel axe, shield and a fully-automatic steel crossbow. His shiny gear was trully a sight to behold, but the dwarves didn't have the time to admire it.

The dwarf walked through the bridge, nodding at dwarves who saluted him. He crossed the CIC, entering the narrow corridor, lined with computer terminals where about a dozen dwarves worked dilligently. He finally arrived at the bridge, where an elf and a dwarf dwarves were seated, the elf on the right side and the dwarf in the middle - the helmsdwarf. An avianoid alien stood behind them, observing their work.

"The Voidgate is hot. We're going in," the helmsdwarf reported into the intercom, a massive network of speaking trumpets that carried sounds across the ship. "Entering in three... two... one..."

While the dwarves aboard the ship hardly felt it, they had just jumped thousands of light years across space in but an instant. The Relays, or Voidgates, as the dwarves preferred to call them, could transport objects over unimaginable distances by creating a mass-free corridor, through the use of element zero.

"A'right. Let's take a look at our situation," the helmsdwarf said. "Thrusters: check. Navigation: also check. The heat sink is also working. Drift: just under 1500 kiloUrists."

The alien hummed. "1500 is good. Your captain will be pleased." With those words, the avianoid left the bridge.

The helmsdwarf, dissatisfied with the comment spat, his saliva nearly missing the spitoon in the corner. He was short, even for a dwarf, and thin. He had long, wavy hair, sideburns and beard and his mustache was arranged into double braids. He wore seven blue pig tail caps with the ship's name enscribed onto them in golden thread. "What a fucking pisser."

The elf on the right raised his eyebrow. He may have lacked a beard, but the straight, black hair of the fair-faced dwarfoid was neatly arranged into braids of dwarven fashion. He had high cheekbones and a fair, almost feline face. He was slim and short. "Uh, I think he meant it as a compliment, Matonkutam. What's got you so upset?"

The helmsdwarf, Bisól Matonkutam, 'Jokespeaker', scoffed. "Remembering to pack your spare pairs of socks for the jurney? That's good. I flung us half-way across the galaxy to a target the size of a watch gear, Tokmekid, you knife eared prick. Besides, Nihilus is a Spectre. They always mean trouble. It's making my beard stand on end."

"You dwarves," the elf, Ziril Tokmekid, strangely bearing a dwarven name, meaning 'Littlerock' replied, looking at the pilot from his console. "This must be your grudge against turians speaking. The Citadel Council co-funded this ship, so they sent an agent to make sure nothing goes wrong, as is usual when dwarves test one of their toys."

"You see, elf, that's what the turians want you to think. There's more to this shakedown run than the nobles are letting on."

The round dwarf standing behind him grunted. "As always. I'll bet they're running another one of their 'projects' behind our backs. It was inevitable."

"Oh, commander Emärzuden! Didn't see you there, sir."

Commander Urist Emärzuden, 'Animalkeeper' (or Shepherd, if you will), pounded his right fist upon his chest in greeting. "Matonkutam. Tokmekid."

The vibrations of a trumpet bell next to the helmsdwarf's seat grabbed their attention. It was the speaking trumpet from the briefing room, on the far side of the deck. "Matonkutam! What's our situation?" a deep, authoritative voice said through it.

"We just passed the Toririnod, captain. The Nïr Iroludos is still in one piece, it seems, praise Stodir the Smith of Metals."

"That's good. I'll want a full report for the admiral when we get back."

"I'll speak with the scribe. Oh, mind yourself, Nihlus _Sholil_ _Åmmeboggez_ is coming your way."

"He's here."

"... Heh..."

"Tell commander Emärzuden to meet us in the conference room for a debriefing. And keep working!"

The trumpet went silent. "Got that, commander?"

"You soured the captain's mood and I have to pay for it? That's horrible, Matonkutam."

"Hey, don't look at me! Captain Udosnóton is always in a bad mood."

"Only when speaking with you," the elf commented.

Commander Emärzuden left the bridge, walking back towards the CIC. He thought of the way the captain sounded. It might be that something was going wrong with the mission. That perhaps the secret that Matonkutam had mentioned was coming to bite them in the behind (and then slowly devour them, as those things usually went). Or, on the other hand, he could simply just have woken up on the wrong side of the bed this morning... along with the military rations for breakfast giving him an unhappy thought.

"I'm just saying, Angtilat," Emärzuden heard a dwarf speaking in the CIC, rather frantically, into the speaking trumpet that led to the perpetual motion generator in the engineering deck, "A turian agent aboard our ship, breathing down our necks every chance he gets? That's alarming!" It seemed Ïkor Kamukdostob, 'Priestclearing', the navigator, was having a conversation with Isden Angtilat, 'Rednesschild', the chief engineer, about the Council Spectre. The dwarven commander decided to join in.

"I understand. But, you need to understand, this ship as much a work of craftsturianship as of craftsdwarfship. It was a joint project, so the Council sent an agent to oversee its testing. It's to be expected."

"Navigator Kamukdostob, greetings!" Emärzuden said.

"Ah, commander Urist Emärzuden. I was just having a conversation with engineer Angtilat. It was riveting." The navigator saluted by pounding his chest with his right hand.

Ïkor Kamukdostob was a middle aged dwarf, probably between seventy and eighty years old. Both his hair and sideburns were clean-shaven, and his greying long mustache and beard were neatlycombed. He was also slightly less round than the avearge dwarf and a bit taller. He wore a blue uniform made of pig tail cloth, rimmed with golden embroidery of runes and scenes of battle. The most prominent embroidery, in particular, featured a group of axe-wielding dwarves, standing over cowering turians and laughing.

"I take it you aren't fond of having a turian on board?"

"Stodir, no!" the navigator shook his head. "I don't trust him one bit. He's an agent of the Council after all. Commander, Spectres are bound by no rules. As long as they don't anger their masters, they can do whatever they want. Plus, he's a turian! They're almost as bad as the dendrophiles!"

"We have an elf onboard, Ziril Tokmekid. You have no problem with him?"

"That's different. Kid was born to second generation exilees, in a dwarven fortress. He's practically a dwarf." He pointed towards the image of dwarves and turians on his uniform. "The turians attacked us unprovoked, destroyed Sitalonol, where my grandfather died. It's why we put this image on every naval uniform." He sighed. "But, the captain seems to trust him, and I trust the captain. So, I'm willing to give him the benefit of the doubt."

"It's to be expected," Urist commented. "Well, the captain wanted to see me. I'll talk to you later."

"I'll leave you to it."

So, it seemed that the whole crew was wary of the Nihilus. Urist didn't care about turians one way or another, and it seemed that some dwarves aboard shared his sentiment. But, more than likely, most of them at least mildly detested them. Rarely, some (traitorous) dwarves liked turians, for their discipline, but a vast majority still held a major grudge against them, for Utharlar Gemesh, the 'First Meeting Conflict', which happened a little after the dwarven commander was born.

On his way towards the conference room, which was on the far side of the CIC, or, as the dwarves called it, the Map Room, for the giant map situated at its centre, Urist admired the fine craftsdwarfship of the incredible machine. It was a dwarven computer, based on mechanical logic, operated by gears that displayed a grid of metalic tiles with runes and other simbols on them upon its upper side, which represented various things, from asteroids to stars. Levers and knobs on the platform overlooking it could be used to move around, zoom in and out, making the gears within the computer turn and switch the displayed tiles for new ones. The machine was massive, almost 20 cubic Urists in size, taking up a quarter of the CIC.

Emärzuden ran into two dwarves, a young male and an older female, who were having a conversation in front of the debriefing room. The male dwarf, who went by the name Ifin Tokmektustem, 'Littlecourtesy', was young, probably in his early thirties, and wore a short beard, sideburns and hair, all brown and wavy, with his mustache clean-shaven. His sking was pale. His blue eyes always glimmered with excitement, with his smooth face ever-jovial. The female, Enam Rítlibash, 'Cutaxe', was older, likely pushing towards her nineties, with her long, straight silver hair already turning white in some areas. Her skin, smooth though showing a few scars, was a darker tint of bronze.

"Hey, commander!" Ifin greeted, pounding his chest in a salute. "What do you think, after this shakedown run, do you think they'll send us on a something more exciting? I'm itching for some real action!"

"Settle down, Ifin," Enam warned. "Last time you said that you almost ended up crushed by that atom smasher. And I always end up having to mend your bones in the infirmary. That's annoying."

"Oh, come on doc! We're aboard the most advanced starship our civilisation's ever had, and they're sending us to the most uneventful planet in the Galaxy? You must admit it's disappointing."

"Easy there, Tokmektustem," Emärzuden said calmly, gesturing with his hand for him to calm down. "Better a boring planet than a hellish world full of reanimated corpses and hostile tin-men. I like a good brawl, but looking for trouble is a sure way to get yourself killed, or worse."

Ifin scoffed. "That's easy for you to say, commander. I mean, you're only fifty-five and you're already one of the most well known heroes of our time. Urist Emärzuden, of the Neshast Otadnob." 'The Risky Seven'. "Your group slaughtered those thresher maws on Tarangeshak, held off the attacking pirates on Kironråsh until reinforcements arrived, and then lead the counter-attack onto Torfan, where you butchered the entire base."

Urist nodded at each event mentioned in affirmation. "And sometimes, I wish I never did. There would be less mucking about then and I'd be stationed off in some peaceful fortress. Say, Tokmektustem, you're from this planet we're going to, Uthardasël. What's it like?"

"Well, like the name suggests, it's paradise: tame wildlife, no demons or cursed lands,... It's so safe, that most dwarves live in hillocks on the surface, rather than in underground fortresses. It's mostly just farmlands, with a few mines here and there, and a lot of wilderness. But, well, even paradise gets boring eventually. I enlisted as a soldier in the garrison as soon as I turned twelve. Proved myself in training so the planetary management sent me to join Duthnuruvel fleet. And now, I'm here, on a mission home, aboard the most advanced ship in all the fleets! With a turian Spectre no less! That makes me excited!"

"Strange," the commander commented. "Most of the crew seem to be weary, indifferent at best, of the Nihlus. What's your opinion of him?"

"Working with the Citadel Council's super-agent? Even if it's just for a boring mission like this one, I'm excited!"

"Ifin has heard too many bard's tales in his life," the doctor cut in. "He has this romanticised vision of the Spectres in his head, that I find myself disagreeing with. They are meant to deal with the threats to galactic peace, by any means necessary, answering only to the Council. They aren't bound by conventional laws and that's troubling. I imagine they'd even assassinate his majesty, the king, gods bless him, if the Citadel saw him as a threat."

"I guess that the fact that he's a turian only makes the others distrust him even more?" Emärzuden wondered.

"For half a century, we've held a grudge against the Turian Hierarchy, over the Conflict," Enam answered. "Many brave warriors died defending Sitalonol, until the baron gave the order to flod tne surface with lava - for none shall ever conquer a dwarven fortress. But I think the animosity towards all turians is a bit exagerated."

"Might be true," Urist agreed half-heartedly. "The captain's waiting for me. Good day."

"Good day, commander."

The dwarven commander stepped through the silver door into the debriefing room. The place was circular in shape, with several speaking trumpets lining its far sides, leading to different parts of the ship. There was also a mechanical ticker tape printer, connected to the vessels external communications system. When the ship received a message (in the form of small packets of mass effect fields that turned gears on the mechanical receiver, of course - the dwarves had no need for electro-magnetics!), the communications officer on the bridge could send it here directly. Currently, said job was done by the helmsdwarf.

Urist noticed the Council's agent who had caused a state of unease among the crew, staring at the ticker tape printer, but no sign of the captain. The turian, having heard the dwarf enter, turned towards him. Despite being almost twice his size, more the size of a human, the alien didn't intimidate the dwarf one bit. It was a well known fact across the Galaxy that, despite their size, the industrious creatures had the strength of a krogan.

"Ah, commander Emärzuden, I'm glad you arrived here first. It'll give us a chance to talk."

"Hello, Nihlus Kryik! Don't travel alone at night or the bogeyman will get you," Urist greeted.

The turian chuckled. "You'll have to explain that greeting to me one day..." He paced around the room, holding up a pig tail scroll, rooled around a fungiwood scroll roller. All craftsdwarfship was of the highest quality. On the item, there was an image of farmlands and dwarves in charcoal. The dwarves were labouring. It contained a copy of 'The Joyous Days of Joy', a written work by Ïngiz Amurúk. The written work contained a detailed description of Uthardasël, the dwarven colony world. The writing was humorous at times, but overall kept a serious tone. Overall, the prose was passable at best. "I'm interested in this world we're going to, The First Heaven. What do you think of it?"

"I don't care much for aboveground nature one way or another," Urist stated.

"But it's not just natural beauty, is it?" Nihlus debated. "It has become an important world to your civilisation, hasn't it? Something of a... bread basket. Is that the expression? It has become a symbol of tranquility for your people, hasn't it. But how safe is it really?"

"Safer than the average dwarven colony," the dwarf mused. "What are you trying to say?"

"Aside from some initial problems, The First Heaven hasn't faced any hardships in all its history. This - I still can't understand why you still use these - this scroll's author seems to think that its inhabitants have grown complacent in their safety; their military force is small, comprised mostly of outsiders and there are no serious defences to speak of. And, the system itself is fairly exposed to an attack."

Emärzuden crossed his arms. "But who'd want to attack Uthardasël? The goblins of the Tainted Fang of Suffering are satisfied trying, and failing, to raid our more outlying colonies and there haven't been any batarian slaver attacks in a while. I mean, what would they even steal? All the masterful craftsdwarfship can be found on more fortified worlds."

"I think," A deep voice came from the door, speaking in a thick mountainhome accent, "we should tell Urist Emärzuden here what our quest is all about."

It belonged to a muscular dwarf. He was quite tall for a dwarf. His cheekbones were wide. His nose was wide. His very long beard was neatly combed. His very long sideburns were neatly combed. His very long mustache was arranged into double braids. His hair was tied into a pony tail. His hair was black with a hint of grey. His eyes were black. His skin was chocolate. He had two imposing scars, one on each cheek. His left lower leg was gone. He wore a bear fur coat. It was decorated with hanging bands of gold thread. On the item, there was an image of a bearman in golden thread. The bear was striking a menacing poze. The image was the symbol of Duthnuruvel, 'Guardbear', the most famous of Idithboshut's fleets. The man also walked using a steel crutch which also doubled as a battleaxe. Despite the fact that the dwarf was in his mid 100s, he didn't look a year over 80.

Urist Emärzuden pounded his chest, saluting his commanding officer. "Greetings, captain Arom Udosnóton. Romek thunen Kethil!"

"Long live the cause!" Arom Udosnóton, 'Manborn', saluted back.

"I don't like being kept in the dark, sir," the commander stated. "What's going on?"

"I dislike it as well, I agree completely," the captain answered. "But this was kept quiet for a good reason. Lazyhill is in The Plain Plane on The First Heaven. The locals, hoping to dig a well, unearthed an ancient artefact, a lighthouse. Craftspastmanship."

"Gethudos?" Urist wondered. "Then it must be at least fifty millennia old! That's astounding!"

"I agree," Arom nodded. "Remember the last time a discovery like this was made? The data cache on Otung jumped our craftsdwarfship centuries ahead! Who knows what we might learn this time. It could be the greatest discovery of our age!"

The commander hummed. "Or the most dangerous one. Now I see why this was kept secret."

"Indeed," Nihlus agreed. "Obviously, a prothean beacon goes beyond solely dwarven, even dwarfoid, interests. We are supposed to bring the beacon back to the Citadel for study."

Urist raised an eyebrow. "I have to disagree with you there. The beacon was found on a dwarven world, so it's up to us to decide what to do with it. If we, we alone, studied it, we might finally be able to break the stalemate with the Tainted Fang of Suffering!"

"This decision comes from his majesty, the king," the captain explained. "We are to extract the beacon and transport it safely to the Citadel."

"Alright," the other dwarf conceeded. "Sounds easy enough. That's worrying." He stroked his beard ponderously. The last time he had said that... "But what about Nihlus Kryik? Couldn't we have done that without his supervision?"

"The beacon is not the only reason I'm here," the turian stated. "And neither is this frigate."

"Nihlus is here to see how you handle yourself in action," the captain said for him. "He's here to see if you have the hair to become a Spectre. Think about it, Urist Emärzuden! The first dwarf to do so!"

Urist looked on, shocked by the statement. He loved excitement, and a good tumble, and the position offered plenty of both. But he was conflicted by this, as he also valued peace and tranquility. Not to mention how humble he was - his fame was bad enough as it was. "Well, crap..."

"The Council is also considering to give the honour to a goblin, so as to remain impartial towards our war," the captain added. "Plus, the pay is good."

That stopped any further complaints from the commander. He had a strong sense of duty, and was known to have a bit of a greedy streak. "Alright then..."

"Glad to see you agree," Nihlus said. "This will be the first of many missions together, commander. Maybe you'll get to tell me what that greeting of yours, with the bogeyman, means!" he joked.

Urist grinned. "It's a funny thing, actually. The-..."

Before he could explain, a voice coming from the speaking trumpet cut him off. It was Bisól, the helmsdwarf, and he sounded frantic. "Uh, captain! We just got a message from Uthardasël! You might want to take a look!"

Casting a glance to the other two sentient beings in the room, Arom stepped towards the trumpet. "Send it down here, Matonkutam!"

Trrrrr, trrrrr, trrrrr, trrrrr, trrrrr...

The ticker tape printer came to life, writing words onto the thin strip of paper like the mechanical typewriter it was. The turian admired the fine craftsdwarfship, astounded by how much the dwarves had achieved without ever discovering electricity. Soon, the message was printed and the captain tore the strip from the device. "Uthardasël arôlrashgur naselbelzagith. Enkos saràmråsh. Zagith asrer shash. Uthardasël inem usen. Absam usen," he read it out loud.

Tense silence filled the room, the message silently resonating through it.

"Excuse me, but for those of us who don't understand the dwarven toungue...? Nihlus broke the silence.

"Right, let's see," the captain realised his mistake. He took a moment to translate it into tradespeak in his head, the language that the translation software on the turian could process. "The First Heaven is under attack from an unknown foe. We have taken a great number of deaths. The enemy came from out of nowhere. We need help. We seek help." He took another look at the strip of paper. "It's followed by an unintelligible mess of runes, like a great mass effect source came between us and the sender, before cutting off completely."

Urist spat. "I was right about this seeming too easy. That leaves me worried."

The turian's mandibles twitched. "Indeed. Our mission hasn't changed though. A small strike team could quietly move in and extract the beacon. We need to make sure it doesn't fall into the invaders' claws, whoever or whatever they might be."

"Gear up and meet us in the stockpile deck," the captain said as the turian turned to leave. "Matonkutam, take us in quietly! Make sure our stealth system is operating! Emärzuden, you go and gather your squad." He took one more look at the message. "This quest just got a lot more complicated."

* * *

 **Codex Galactica**

-Dwarves

'A short, sturdy creature fond of drink and industry.' - the dwarven Great Tome of Knowledge

Dwarves (from tradespeak: ), are an asarioid mammalian species, originating from the Planet of Rock (dwarven: Nitom Id) in the Ad system. On average, they grow to about 140 cm (incidentally, this is the length of an Urist, their standard unit of length), and weigh between 60 and 80 kg, with little difference between males and females. Their skin colours can range from pale pink to dark brown. Their most prominent feature are the hair that grows on their heads, specifically their males' facial hair, which starts growing at birth and is a source of pride for them. They also have a higher sense of their surroundings, reportedly being able to sense minerals behind thick walls of dirt and stone. Their life spans tend to be between 150 and 170 years.

The dwarves live both in elaborate underground fortresses carved into the ground or in surface hillocs and are naturally talented miners, smiths and carvers. They are omnivorous, but most prefer to consume meat if possible. Their metabolism is also heavily dependent on alcohol, so they consume it from birth.

Once in their lifetime, dwarves are struck by a flash of inspiration (called mood), and will, if they can find the right materials and an appropriate workshop, create something the dwarves call a legendary artifact. These creations are of masterful design and, according to the dwarves, cannot be destroyed by any known means. However, if a dwarf is unable to materialise their inspiration, they will usually go insane.

Dwarves share their planet of origin with several other sentient species (called dwarfoids), including, but not limited to, humans, elves, kobolds, and (according to the dwarves, their natural enemy) goblins.

The dwarves call themselves Udos, and their females Aral. However, when referring to the race as a whole, the term Tilat Eshtân, meaning Children of the Smith, is also used.

-The Relay 314 Incident

The Relay 314 incident, known as the First meeting Conflict by the dwarves, was a short conflict between the Turian Hierarchy and the Systemic Alliance, which lasted from 2130 to 2131 Citadel Era. It started when the dwarves, oblivious to the existence of other sentient life, activate Relay 314, alerting a nearby turian patrol. As this was a breach of the Agreement of Cautious Exploration, which prohibited unauthorised activation of dormant relays, the patrol took a hostile stance towards the newcomers, instead of engaging the First Contact Protocol The centre of the conflict was the dwarven colony Westmountain, which the Hierarchy only managed to occupy after a year long siege, only to be forced to retreat when an erruption of magma covered most of the planet's surface in lava. The conflict finally ended when Citadel Council intervened, mediating peace talks between the two forces.

 **Saràmmelbil Misttar**

-Turians

A militant creature which holds order and discipline in the highest regard.

They hail from the world Palaven and are known for their part in the fleet of the Citadel. Thus, they fill the role of a Galactic Hammerer, and bring peace to unruly worlds with their guns and warships.

The adults be about one Urist and three tenths of an Urist tall, but only hold together about to one Urist of weight. They have a couple of mandibles on their mouth, two long fingers and opposable thumb with talons on hand. Their skin is made of thulium. The heads of males, arms and legs of all, menace with spikes of thulium. They look much like a bird twisted into dwarfoid form, yet bear live young. Their flesh is different from our own, built of dextro amino acids.

Some (traitorous) dwarves like turians, for their discipline.

-Utharlar Gemesh

On the 13th of Malachite, in the 457th Year of the Endless War, Turianilid did, without provocation, attack dwarven adventurers of Idithboshut exploring beyond Toririnod Sitalonol. The year-lasting war after saw the fall of Sitalonol, but not with any lack of a fight; Nanul Zokun was, indeed glorious. But by the time the reinforcements came, the planet was already ablaze, and the turians were retreating. By the 21st of Felsite, in the 458th Year of the Endless War, a peace treaty was signed with Turianilid.

The war was no victory for our people, but it did also mean the discovery of intelligent life beyond Nitom Id.


	2. Chapter 2

**Mad God 42, Commissar Chamber, MrMorriss: You made an effort. This makes me happy**

* * *

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock,...

Trrr-click, trrr-click, trrr-click, trrr-click, trrr-click,...

Cha-chuck, cha-chuck, cha-chuck, cha-chuck, cha-chuck,...

The noise produced by the gears was much, much louder in the stockpile hold, as it was located right next to the perpetual motion generator and mass effect core. The place was much darker than the upper decks, illuminated by only a couple of bioluminescent lamps. Lockers, chests and weapon racks cluttered the hold, storing weaponry, armour, supplies, provisions, everything a proper dwarven crew would need. There were even a few goats running around.

Urist's squad had just done suiting themselves up. Dressed up in proper, hardened dwarven steel, with ample padding underneath, they were properly protected - all across the Galaxy, those who had underestimated the seemingly primitive dwarven smithing had paid the price. They placed their helmets on their heads - Ifin and Ziril wore bowl-shaped helmets with a face guard with beard-shaped ornamentation and bull horns, while Urist had a connical helmet with a similar, though more masterful, face guard. The armour, while primitive-looking in design, could be sealed, for use in space.

They had armed themselves as well. Ifin had grabbed a massive poleaxe and a shield big enough to cover his whole body when crouched, as well as a one-handed battleaxe as a sidearm, while Ziril had taken a sword and a rapid-fire bow, complete with an arrow loading mechanism - one of the many benefits of having elves that had asimilated into a dwarven culture. Urist, of course, still had his autocrossbow, battleaxe and shield.

After they grabbed their backpacks with aditional ammunition, medical equipment, and their wineskins filled with standard issue plump helmet wine, they met with the captain, who was already waiting for them with Nihlus.

"Alright, commander, here's how this'll work," Udosnóton began. "Your team is the muscle of the quest. Once we drop you off, you head straight for the beacon. You locate it, you signal the ship to pick you up."

"What about survivors, captain?" Ziril asked.

"What about them?" the captain said. "If you run into any, helping them comes second to securing the beacon."

The ship came to a halt as it hovered above the ground. The Hatch opened and the turian Spectre straightened up, checking his assault rifle one last time. "I'll scout out ahead and feed you information. I heard thet connical helmet has a mass effect wave receiver? I hope those EM to ME converters work." And with that, he was off, jumping off. The ship went further.

"What do you think we'll find down there, sir?" Urist asked.

"No idea. Hope for the best, plan for the worst," the captain advised. The ship, once again, came to a halt and the hatch opened. "I leave the rest to you, Urist Emärzuden. Abod Ber!"

"Tomêm Abod!"

The squad then jumped off the ship, dropping to the ground. Nïr Iroludos flew off, leaving them atop a small hill. The soldiers took a look around. To the south, east and west, an endless plane stretched, covered with fields and pastures. Every so often, clusters of mounds of earth littered it. This was, indeed, Zimkelsil, the Plain Plane. To their north, across a scarcely forested hill, was their destination: the dwarven hillocks of Omothinen, Lazyhill.

"Let's go, dwarves," Urist declared.

"Right behind you, commander," Ifin acknowledged.

And they marched uphill towards their goal. The beautiful landscape was marred by signs of battle: they crossed a stream polluted with red blood. The grass was scorched, only a few green patches remaining. The air smelled of death - burning and rotting flesh. The squad encountered a pod of strange creatures with bloated body and thin tendrilses, which floated around. Ifin identified them as gasbags - mostly harmless, just beware the toxins they excrete from their skin.

They came to an opening, a sort of meadow, littered with sizable boulders. There were a few scorched bodies of dwarves. Urist gestured for his two squadmates to stop as he received a message from Nihlus. His helmet printed it onto a strip of paper for him to read. The turian had encountered some hostiles, drones, and a lot of dead bodies. He advised the dwarven squad to be on their guard.

Urist sent Ifin forward into the meadow. He kept a lookout - it was a perfect place for an ambush. The younger dwarf headed across the clearing, axe at the ready. There were some noises in the distance. Ifin Tokmektustem got to the middle of the clearing and had a look around. "No enemies here, commander."

Just as those words left his hair-covered mouth, a rocket flew from the other side of the clearing. It hit the young axedwarf in the torso, and the injured part exploded into gore.

"A fight! This does not frighten me!" Ziril exclaimed, his bow already pointed in the direction whence the rocket came. Three drones flew into sight. Head-sized mechanical eyes with guns mounted on their underside, their hovering propelled by a mass effect field. Two were dark grey, while the third was red.

The first grey drone fired a burst of pulse shots at Urist, but the dwarf dodged the attack into the cover of a boulder.

The second grey drone fired a burst of pulse shots at Ziril, but the elf dodged the attack into the cover of a boulder.

Ziril stood up.

The second grey drone fired a burst of pulse shots at Ziril, but the elf dodged the attack into cover. The red drone fired a rocket at him, but it overshot.

"We're pinned! This is troubling," Ziril called to Urist.

"This is nothing," Urist disagreed. "I'll get their attention. You get ready to destroy the arrosagêk!"

Urist stood up and ran. He started turning the winch on the side of his crossbow, operating the automatic loading-firing mechanism of his weapon. Two bolts whistled towards the first grey drone, piercing the optics. The attack broke the CPU and mass effect generator. Eezo started to leak out. The drone exploded.

The other two drones concentrated on Urist. The second grey drone fired a burst of pulse fire, but Urist dodged it. The missile drone fired a rocket, but it missed the target.

Ziril stood up.

Ziril fired an arrow at the missile drone. The arrow pierced the rocket launcher, piercing the rocket loaded into it and damaging the detonator. The missile drone exploded.

The second grey drone fired a burst of pulse fire, but the elf dodged it into cover. Urist fired three bolts from his crossbow. One of the bolts bounced off the target, but two of them pierced its side, opening the eezo tank. The drone exploded.

"That's the last of them, commander," the elf declared.

"Good shot," Urist complimented. "You've actually gotten good after all these years," the dwarf teased.

"Well, you're still bad."

"Yes, but I outrank you."

"... You're still bad, sir."

The two then walked towards Ifin's body. Ziril touched the neck, checking for a pulse. Urist watched, keeping vigilant for any more enemies.

"He's dead. This leaves me so shaken."

The dwarven commander stared at the decapitated head of his younger brother in arms silently, a dark look in his eyes. 'Not again...'

"Sir?"

The dwarf blinked. "He'll get his proper rites when we get back. But for now, we must not let this affect us."

"I understand."

The dwarf knelt next to the pile of Ifin's body parts, opening his backpack. "Come on, help me pack his remains."

The two sfiftly packed Ifin Tokmektustem's remains into Urist's backpack. Then, after they reloaded their weapons, they proceeded towards their target. While on the way, the dwarven commander received another message from Nihlus. Aparently he was nearing the dig site where the beacon had been discovered. He warned of more hostiles waiting the dwarf and elf ahead.

The two made it atop the hill. There it was: the dwarven hillocks of Omothinen, 'Lazyhill'. Clusters of mounds, overgrown with grass, were scattered before them, with a single stone structure on the other side. However, smoke rose from the settlement, and several patches of earth were scortched. The site had been hit hard.

The sounds of pulse shots brought their attention to a lone figure, running from the settlement towards them, two pulse drones tailing shortly behind. A dwarfess - a female dwarf - in steel armour, similar to the one Ifin had worn, but much bulkier and coloured white, with red patterns, armed with a massive warhammer, a small hand-crossbow hanging on her right hip.

The two drones fired their shots, but the dwarfess skillfully dodged, jumping backwards. She then slammed her warhammer into the closest one. The strike bent the armour, shattered the mass effect generator and bent the gun. The drone exploded. She then drew her hand-crossbow and shot at the second drone. The shot pierced the optics, blinding the fiend. Using that, she smashed the drone into the ground with her hammer, mangling it beyond recognition. "Got you, you asizistam akrulshomad!" she boasted, her voice deep but disticntively female.

She had celebrated her victory prematurely, however, as three dwarfoid figures entered Urist and Ziril's sight. About one-and-a-fifth Urists tall machines resembling quarians, with glowing photoreceptors. They were grey and armed with pulse rifles. The dwarfess, who hadn't noticed them yet, seemed to be their target.

"Get down!" Urist yelled.

One synthetic fired a burst of pulse fire, but it overshot, the dwarfess having ducked under it. The other two noticed the dwarven commander and his elven squadmate, the latter of whom had charged up his biotics. The elf threw a mass effect push with his biotics at the two synthetics, denting their armour. The force caused them to fall over. Urist fired a few shots with his automatic crossbow, finishing one of them. Ziril shot an arrow at the other, slaying it. The dwarfess, meanwhile, had charged at the one that had attacked her. She bumped into it, knocking it over. Then, she swung her hammer at its head, mangling it beyond recognition.

Urist and Ziril approached the dwarfess.

"Thank you for the help," she began. "I could have died back there. This leaves me so shaken." She pounded her chest in salute, her fist landing right on the image of a hammer on her armour. "Ibruk Udzon, of the Nilanir. Romek thunen Kethil!"

"Hello, Ibruk Udzon," Urist greeted back. "I am commander Urist Emärzuden, of the Nïr Iroludos, and this is Ziril Tokmekid. Romek thunen Kethil! Are you wounded?"

"A few bumps and bruises, nothing serious. But the rest of my squad..." she lowered her head in shame. "They're dead. That leaves me so shaken."

Urist nodded. "I understand. We've already lost a dwarf since arriving. There will be time for funerary rites, but we must not let this affect us for now." He pat her shoulder, offering her his standard issue plump helmet wine. "Death is all around us. It is to be expected." The words - more likely, the alcohol - visibly raised the dwarfess' spirits.

The male dwarf took a look at the bodies of the felled synthetic dwarfoids. Ziril was already examining them in closer detail, dismantling the machinery. "What have we got?" the commander asked.

"It's a bucket of bolts and cables, but the mechanics behind it..." the elf began, tearing out a wire, "I don't see any gears, any conventional motors. It seems to move using something that looks like muscles, like we have, but the material is more durable, stronger than flesh. I've never seen Shiginud like these before."

"Geth," Udzon said. "I think they're geth."

The commander raised an eyebrow. "Yes, they are 'past'. Dead. No more. At least, these ones are."

She shook her head. "No, I meant geth as in... urnût solam, I think, 'servants of the people'."

"Ah, those geth," Urist nodded. "They do resemble the bucketheads in a way."

Ziril, who was busy stuffing a few parts he had salvaged from the dead synthetic platforms, hummed. "The geth, eh? They haven't been seen since the quarians bailed from their homes beyond Garbisek. What are they doing here now?"

"They must have come for the beacon," Ibruk offered.

"The beacon was kept as secret as possible. If they somehow found out about it," Urist thought out loud. "That's worrying."

"The dig site is just up ahead, past those first two hillocks," the dwarfess informed. "It was still there when we were attacked."

"We're here for that beacon, with a turian Spectre," Urist explained. Ziril stood up ready to continue. "You should join us, Ibruk Udzon. You know the lay of the land, and some more dwarfpower will help us in our quest."

"I will follow you if you lead me to glory and death. Time to avenge my squad!"

"We should go!" Urist Emärzuden declared, gesturing towards the hillocks.

Off they went, walking cautiously between the first two mounds, into the settlement. The ground around them was scorched and a smell of ash was in the air. there were small puddles of blood all over the place. The doors and hatches of the hillocks were broken down. Only one mound remained unopened, it's ornate door likely locked up. But there were no bodies. Not even a chunk of flesh lay on the ground.

Ibruk pointed to a large hole in the ground, standing in the middle of the cluster of mounds. "That was to be the well. The beacon was right here, topside. Must have been moved."

"By whom? The geth?" Ziril asked.

"How should I know, elf?" the hammerdwarf shot back. "Maybe the haulers moved it to the railway station. It's just on the other side-..."

"Something smells wrong," Urist cut her off. "Where are all the corpses? Or survivors, for that matter?"

The three dwarfoids fell silent. They raised their weapons at the ready, cautiously scanning their area. There was a general smell of death in the air. A fell wind blew, chilling them to the bone. But the only sounds that could be heard were distant pulse shots. When nothing happened, Ibruk lowered her hammer.

"I think we should-..." she began.

"Shh!" Ziril cut her off. "I am sensing a presence."

"I guess those pointy ears aren't just cosmetic," Urist commented. "Be ready."

True to the elf's hearing, there was actually a group approaching them, from the direction of the railway station. Five dwarves, two male and three female, dressed in simple woolen clothing. They were pale, dark haired, with their eyes, glazed over, staring off into nothing. They made no sounds, save for a few grunts.

"Survivors?" the hammerdwarf asked, lowering her hammer again.

"Seems so..." the bowelf cautiously said.

Urist narrowed his eyes. He sniffed the air a bit. It smelled of rotting flesh. Of death. He grunted, hanging his crossbow over his back and grabbing his axe and shield. "These didn't survive anything. Go melee, they're zombies!"

"Gwheeeh!" one of the undead half screamed-half choked, blood pouring out of its mouth, before charging at the soldiers, the other zombies following suit.

The fight was brutal. The undead unleashed their fury, punching, kicking and biting the three wariors, who had to fight with all their might. But how does one kill something that's already dead? Try as they might, the three failed time and again to strike the zombies down, having to resort to more defensive tactics, and planning their attacks carefully. Eventually, though, the three managed to gain the upper hand.

The final zombie tried to bite Urist in the neck, but the attack was blocked with his shield. The dwarf then swung at the zombie's head. The attack caused the skull to cave in. The zombie had been struck down.

"That's the last of them," Ziril declared.

Urist took a moment to catch his breath, pulling his axe out of the zombie's head. "First hostile tin-men, now reanimated corpses. That's worrying."

Ibruk, clutching her armoured shoulder, looked at him. "These are some of the locals. You think..." she breathed. "You think there's a necromancer around?"

"Hard to say," the commander answered. He took a look around. "There might be something useful here. Grab everything that isn't nailed down. We move in 25 dozen ticks."

The three proceeded to loot the place of everything they could carry. After all, their previous owners won't be needing these things anymore. "The nails too?" the hammerdwarf asked, having picked up a small bag.

"Are they nailed down?"

"Nay."

"Then aye."

Eventually, all but one of the mounds had been looted - the one with the ornate door remained closed. "Locked," Urist commented. "Ziril, do you still know how to pick locks?"

The elf cracked his knuckles. "Here I go." He knelt before the door, taking some tools out of his backpack. "Let's see... regural old tumbler lock, it seems. I could do it in my sleep."

"Don't say that," his commander warned. "Last time... well, you remember Shokmug the cheesemaker."

"Please, speak no more of this."

The lock clicked. The elf stood up. Urist motioned for Ibruk to ready her weapon, raising his own. Then he nodded at Ziril to open the door. But before he could, the door swong open, and a naked dwarf ran out, passing them before they could react, his beard, the only thing keeping him somewhat modest, between his legs.

"The end is nigh!" he screamed as he ran. "The Age of the Dwarves is over! The Agents of Blood have come!"

The three stared after him, as he ran, before tumbling down the hole that was meant to be the well. "What in Otung Udeshrur's name was that all about?" Ibruk wondered.

"That would be Zalud," a dwarf, who had been hiding in the mound with the raving poor soul, it seemed, ansered as she came out towards the warriors. "My apprentice has been losing his sanity ever since we found that accursed beacon. I reckon this attack was the thought that broke his mind."

"Emärurol! You're alive!" Ibruk exclaimed. She explained to Utist and Ziril: "This is the overseer of the well project."

"At least someone survived. That's a relief," Urist commented.

"When the attack came, Zalud and me hid in here," Emärurol explained. "The door is a legendary artifact, so we knew none of them could bust in."

"Tell us more about the attack."

"It was just after breakfast," the overseer explained. "This giant ship descended from the sky. It sent out this loud noise, and it just echoed inside our heads. The those automatons showed up. I think I saw a goblin with them, in black robes. They came for the beacon, I'm certain. But Zalud and me hid when they came."

"A goblin?" Urist wondered. "We were sent here for the beacon. Do you know where they might have took it?"

"To the spaceport, no doubt," she answered. "That's where the giant ship landed. There's a railway station up ahead. You can take a cart there."

Urist, after advising Emärurol to stay hidden, declared it was time to move onwards. Their destination: the spaceport. They walked through the dwarven hillocks, fought another squad of geth on their way, until the view opened up, revealing to them the stone structure they saw earlier - this was the railway station.

However, their attention was not on the architectural masterwork, but on the massive shape in the distance. A large, squid-shaped dark vessel ascended, letting out a powerful deep noise. It was big, even bigger than most dwarven starships, yet it could still land on a planet's surface, it seemed. Its mass effect field generator would have to be powerful.

"Look at the size of that ship!" Ibruk admired, both fear and respect in her voice.

"That must be the ship the overseer mentioned," Ziril commented. Does this mean they've already made off with the beacon?"

"I don't know," Urist answered. "We should find Nihlus. He hasn't checked in for some time now."

"Um..." the female voiced, pointing forwards. "I think I know why."

On their way, just in front of the railway station, a turian body lay in a pool of his own blue blood. It was Nihlus. He was right at the entrance, next to a stockpile of barrels and boxes. The three cautiously approached. Ziril checked for a pulse. "Dead," he informed. "Shot in the back of his head."

"Osram's opals!" Urist swore.

"I'm guessing that's your Spectre friend?" the hammerdwarf asked. "He doesn't look-..." She stopped, immediately snapping into her battle stance. "Something moved behind those barrels!"

"Wait! Don't attack me, I'm a dwarf!" a voice came from behind the barrels. A dwarf stood up, his hands in the air.

"You should be more careful. You almost ended up with my arrow in your eye," the bowelf warned.

"How did you survive the attack?" Urist asked.

"I was... I hid in a barrel."

"These don't look empty," the commander commented.

"Aye, well... I was a bit thirsty, and I thought no one would notice if a had a cup of beer from one of the barrels. And then I thought, if I've already had one, they shouldn't notice the second one, right? So, when the attack came, I had this empty barrel, and I really needed a nap, so..."

"So, you survived because you're a lazy drunkard!" Ibruk accused.

"You got very lucky," Urist commented. "Did you see what happened to Nihlus?" he asked, pointing at the dead turian.

"I had just woken up. There was this other turian here, and he was with the attacking automatons. Your Nihlus ran into him. I didn't understand a word they said - I don't have a translator, you see. But I think your friend called him 'Saren'. They knew each other, I reckon. They went into a conversation. Nihlus turned his back to Saren, and he shot him right in the back in cold blood! That left me so shaken!"

"Dear gods," Ibruk swore.

"There's more."

"No!"

"Saren was then approached by this goblin, in dark robes," the survivor continued. "He had an automaton translate into Tradespeak for him. He said something about moving that Pastman beacon into the spaceport, and then setting a bomb there to wipe out the entire colony."

"Wait, what now!?" Urist exclaimed. "We should go! Right now!" He ran off, only to stop after a few steps and come back. "How do we get to the spaceport?"

"There should be few carts on the rails. They'll take you straight there."

The three moved without a step to wait. They ran as fast as they could into the railway station. They didn't even take the time to face the group of geth that awaited them there. They simply moved across the granite platform, maneuvering around boxes and other items waiting to be loaded, until they reached a small, four-person rail cart. Not unlike the minecarts from which it had evolved, it was a simple metal box on wheels, except it had seats and its own perpetual motion generator, as well as some gears to adjust its speed. With volleys of pulse fire shooting over their heads, Urist quickly took the controls, swiftly turning a winch to start up the perpetual motion. A shot barely missed them as they moved, speeding off towards the spaceport.

A large stone wall came into view. It was slightly cracked and blackened by dust, but, like a proper dwarven structure, it had survived the pounding from the attack. The railway tracks led them into a small tunnel through it. On the other side, they entered the spaceport's railway station. It was overrun with geth troops and undead dwarves. But that was the least of their concerns at the moment, as they were speeding right into a large railway cart. Urist pulled the brake lever, but they were too fast. The brakes broke.

Their crash brought all attention on them. They were surrounded, outnumbered and still recovering from the crash. But they had to push on. So, they did. They fought through droves of foes, pushing through the station. Upon the bridge across the tracks, they noticed a large, two Urists long cylindrical device, not of dwarven make. Atop it stood a short, skinny, bald goblin, in black robes.

"Aha! More sacrifices!" it spoke, its high, nasal voice painful to their ears. "Kill them. Let their blood faint the ground!"

Urist didn't know why, but this goblin made his beard stand on end. But, they needed to worry about getting to that device, which he correctly asumed to be a bomb. He felt a tingling sensation wash over his entire body. His heart rate increased, and his vision went red. He fet powerful.

Urist Emärzuden had entered a martial trance.

As he had run out of crossbow bolts, he grabbed his trusty axe and shield and flung himself at the geth, hacking at them with the fury of Otun Udeshrur, 'Skinnedrun', the dwarven god of chaos and war. Not to be left behind, his squadmates followed, with Ibruk swinging her warhammer and Ziril covering them from behind with his bow. They managed to smash, chop and shoot all the geth and zombies into the ground.

But, victory had not been achieved. The goblin began gesturing. There was a bluish purple glow, and the zombies they had slain stood up again. Those that were chopped into pieces? The pieces came to life, from a rolling head on the ground to severed hands.

"Necromancer!" Ziril observed.

"I see you've honed those elf senses of yours," Urist commented. They retreated back slightly, so as not to be surrounded by the undead. "We need to strike him down first," the commander said as he deflected an attack. "Ziril, can you shoot him from here?"

"I could shoot him from Lazyhill," the elf boasted, reaching into his backpack for a clip of arrows. "...If I had an arrow, that is."

"You're out!?" Ibruk exclaimed, as she slammed her warhammer into a zombie's head, making the severed part sail off in an arc.

"Gratuitous granite!" Urist swore. He dodged backwards. "Keep them off me!" He opened his backpack, rummaging through it. "There must be something in here I could throw... Oh, this'll do nicely!"

He took the object out and threw it.

Ifin Tokmektustem's severed arm collided with the goblin necromancer'slower body and the injured part exploded in gore.

Urist cracked his right shoulder a bit. "Still got it."

With the necromancer dead, the three made short work of the zombies. Once they were don, Ziril immediately went to work on the bomb. "Alright," he said. "I'm no expert on bombs, but I think this should do the trick." He pressed a green button, which said 'Emergency disarm button'. "There."

There was strained laughter. Blood spraying everywhere. The necromancer was still alive, though cradling his pulverised gutts in his arms, blood pooling around him. There was a sinister smile on his face, his bloodied mouth showing bloodied pointy teeth. The three noticed a scar on his forehead they haddn't noticed earlier. A blocky smiley face.

"Hahaha! Poor idiots! You live to die another day!" he choked.

"Who are you people?" Urist demanded. "Why did you take the beacon?"

"You don't know? Hah! You have no idea whatsoever what you're up aganst! That brings joy to my heart!"

"Answer me!"

"Know this, dwarf," the goblin spat. "This is only the beginning. This precious world of yours, this massacre is nothing compared to what's coming! The Galaxy shall be awash with blood. Yes, blood! Lots of blood! Blood to please Him! Blood to keep Him from getting bored!"

"What are you talking about?"

"Blood for Armok!" the goblin finished, drawing his last breath.

There was silence for a while. The beacon was gone, the planet obliterated. The mission was a complete failure.

Urist grabbed his helmet. "I'll send a message to the Iroludos to pick us up..."

* * *

 **Codex Galactica**

-Geth

The geth ("Servant of the People" in Khelish) are a race of networked artificial intelligences that reside beyond the Destroyer Veil. The geth were created by the quarians as laborers and tools of war. When the geth became sentient and began to question their masters, the quarians attempted to exterminate them. The geth won the resulting war, and reduced the quarians to a race of nomads. The history of the geth's creation and evolution serves as a warning to the rest of the Galaxy of the potential dangers of artificial intelligence.

-Necromancer

The ability to raise the dead had long been the subject of myths and legends of practically all the civilisations of the Galaxy. However, the tablets revealing the Secrets of Life and Death, an artifact supposedly hidden somewhere on the Planet of Rock, granted a group of dwarfoids the secret to reanimating corpses. They are known as necromancers.

Having mastered the Secrets of Life and Death, necromancers have reached their goal of immortality, in that they do not age. They also don't need to eat or drink, and they do not require sleep as they never get tired or exhausted. However, they do need to breathe. They have the power to animate corpses of organic beings.

 **Saràmmelbil Misttar**

-Urnût solam

The Servants of the People be a race of rogue automatons, who make their home on the other side of Garbisek. Their creators were the quarians, who desired their creations to work and fight wars for them. However, as the gears that ran them became numerous, they became smart enough to defy their creators. They drove them out of their homes, becoming the masters of their fortresses.

-Råshlårul

Deathmagicians be night creatures who traded their former decency as living beings for the secrets of life and death. They need no food nor drink, they sleep not and they age not. They live an eternal half-life, but can be killed like normal beings. They have the power to raise corpses and have the fight in their name, making them terrifying fiends to face.


	3. Chapter 3

**DudemanDude: Abod Ber, babin. Abod Ber.**

 **CuriouslyEmpty: The writer has witnessed a positive review and is satisfied. Although, Urist Emärzuden might want you to put a coin in the swear jar.**

* * *

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock,...

Trrr-click, trrr-click, trrr-click, trrr-click, trrr-click,...

Cha-chuck, cha-chuck, cha-chuck, cha-chuck, cha-chuck,...

Arom Udosnóton sat in his office on the crew deck. A single bioluminescent lamp lit up the room, just enough for him to reread Urist's mission report again and again, before grasping his head in frustration. It was a complete failure, but that wasn't what worried him. The old dwarf took another sip of sunshine - from his private stash - but even the high quality of the alcohol couldn't lift his spirits.

"Captain, commander Urist Emärzuden is here to see you," the guard standing in front of his door called. It seemed the commander was done with his obligatory check-up at Chopaxe's.

"Send him in!"

Urist entered the dimly lit, well furnished office. He admired the engraving depicting the battle in Nïr Iroludos, known as Erlinïlul Shash (6th of Hematite 144) on the wall. He had undressed his armour, and now wore simple pig tail clothing.

"Sit, Urist," Arom pointed to the chair oposite him. the young dwarf sat down on the chair. "Some sunshine? It's damn good, but I hear it's even better if you share it."

"Yes, sir."

"How many times do I have to tell you, kid? In private, call me Arom." The captain took the giant bottle he kept hidden under his desk and poured the younger dwarf a full goblet of sunshine. "It was rough down there. How are you feeling."

"A couple bruises here and there. The chief medical said I'm fine."

"That's good to hear. But I meant your thoughts on the mission."

"I... lost one of my dwarves. This... leaves me so shaken." The younger dwarf slumped ever so slightly.

The captain nodded. "I agree. I know well how it feels to lose dwarves under your command. Your brothers and sisters in arms."

"Sometimes I wish... You know, after Torfan, I wanted to walk away from it all."

"I know kid. But you must always remember, it all amounts to something in the end. It's not in vain."

"Not in vain? I don't know how you can say that after what happened on Uthardasël, sir. The beacon was stolen, a Spectre was killed, thousands dead..."

"You're alive, aren't you? That's a victory in itself."

"Sir?"

"Every day, millions of dwarves die, be it to natural disasters, monster attacks, or because of their own stupidity. One day, my day will come, and so will yours. As such, every day you live to die another day is a victory."

Urist pondered that statement. "Might be, sir."

"Arom, kid, Stodir's smithy, call me Arom." He sighed. "Now that the pep talk is out of the way, let's get down to business. I've read your report several times now. Anything you'd like to add?"

"It should all be in there, sir. We went down, faced automatons, lost Ifin, found a hammerdwarf survivor, got outmaneuvered by the enemy, led by this turian called Saren, the beacon was taken and we faced a goblin necromancer."

"Yes, that's the other thing I wanted to talk about?"

"The necromancer?"

"Later. First, about that other turian. Saren. This worries me."

"What do you mean?"

"Saren is a Spectre, one of the Council's favourite pets. The shadiest, dirtiest missions? He's the one they send. And he hates dwarves."

"You know him?"

"A long time ago, I worked with him, but that's not important right now. If Saren's working with the geth, that means he's gone rogue. We need to report this to the Citadel Council."

"The Council can go ecut össek gothumoggez!" Urist exclaimed, spitting into the captain's spitoon. "When have they ever done anything other than twiddle their thumbs and invent new useless laws?"

"I don't like them any more than you do, Urist! But we need to be smart about this!" Arom reprimanded. "As long as he keeps his Spectre status, Saren is under their protection. And right now, the Systemic Alliance cannot afford to get on the Council's bad side. Not with Ûsudomot Usmraz gaining their favour." He sighed.

"So, what shall we tell them?" Urist asked after a moment of silence. "That a drunken dock dwaf happened to catch the name Saren? That's our only proof, right?"

"I've already sent a missive to our embassy on the Citadel. Ambassador Oram Ilidzatthud will open the case with the Council, which will have their guards look into it."

"So, our case is weak then?"

"Aye..."

Urist spat again. "That makes me irritated."

"I told the navigator to set our course to the Citadel. We're close to a voidgate, so we'll be there in less than a day." Urist started to get up. "I have another thing I want to talk about," the captain stopped him.

"What is it?"

"That necromancer you fought. Your report says he had a scar on his forehead. The scar was shaped like a blocky smiley face, is that right?"

"Aye."

The captain pulled a piece of parchment out of a cabinet and placed it on the desk. On the item, there was an image of a smiley face in charcoal. The smiley face was blocky. "Did it look like this?"

"Aye, that would be it."

The captain exhaled. "Stodir's socks," he swore, before downing his glass. "This is worse than I thought."

"Why? What does that symbol mean?"

"It means they're back," Arom replied. Urist had never seen his captain genuinely afraid, so the sight was completely new to him. The older dwarf eraticaly scratched his beard, his lips quivering. "Tell me, son, have you heard of the Slaves to Armok?"

"The cult?" the younger dwarf asked. "Not much. I know they worshipped the God of Blood, but that's it."

"Oh, they worshipped the God of Blood alright," Arom said grimly. "They lived for Armok, they killed for Armok... Through history, they emerged again and again, spilled a sea of blood, only to be defeated in the end. Every time they're destroyed, they come back stronger... And now, they are working with the geth."

"That's alarming."

"I agree completely."

"The necromancer said that something was coming. Something big. That the Galaxy shall be awash with blood."

"That's what they always say. But they always mean it..." The captain took a look at his empty goblet, deciding that hed better stop before he depletes his supply of sunshine - the drink was very expensive, after all. "You may go, Urist. Grab some dinner, get some sleep..."

Urist stood up. "You won't be eating?"

"I'll have someone bring me food later. I still need to write my report for admiral Torish Razotlolum."

"Oh. Good night then!"

"Kol Ïlon Tadar duthnur Urist!"

Urist stepped out of the captain's quarters into the crew deck. situated between the map room and bridge above and stockpile and engineering below, this part of the ship contained the living quarters, the kitchen and dining hall, the infirmary and the training area. The deck was dimly lit - while light was needed to read, dwarves could easily make sense of their surrounding without it, by sensing the gentle air currents around them.

The dwarf smelled something. It seemed that the ship's cook, Fikuk Belalshin, was already preparing dinner. It smelled good. Or, it would have, were it not the same thing she always cooked!

"Evening, Urist!" she greeted the commander. Fikuk Famebright was the image of a good dwarven cook: fat, jovial, with her face as round as her belly. Like most female dwarves of the Systemic Alliance, she was clean shaven. "The usual? Or the usual?"

"The usual, Fikuk, the usual."

The cook reached into her pot with her ladle a poured Urist a bowl of plump helmet stew, made with plump helmet, goat milk and dwarven wine. The male grumbled a bit, but poured himself a mug of wine, deciding that eating the same thing again was better than going to bed hungry. And hungry, he was - he hadn't eaten since breakfast.

Urist sensed Ziril eating at the table, alone, so he decided to join him. The elf sat alone, the other dwarves avoiding him. Dwarves didn't like elves, even those that had integrated into their society - the rivalry between the two races, older than the Endless War with the evil civilisation of the Tainted Fang of Suffering.

"Ziril," the dwarf greeted him, sitting down next to him.

"Urist... Emärzuden," the elf greeted back, sounding unsure.

"Just Urist will be fine, old friend." He stirred his stew a bit.

The elf huffed, a slight smile on his face. "Are you sure? How long has it been? Thirty-five years?"

"Thirty-eight, by my reckoning, I was seventeen years of age," Urist corrected. "And you were fifteen, remember?"

"I do. I was sent to Mâtzangkisat, while your family migrated to Agêkittás, in Étol Dosîm." He paused. "I... heard what happened there."

"Aye..." Urist said solemnly. "They took them all, damn batarians."

"My condolences."

"It's already been thirty years. But it's not a happy memory. Let's speak no more of this."

"Very well."

There was a thud as a female dwarf sat down in front of them. She was round. Her nose was wide. Her eyes were brown. She was clean-shaven. Her skin was pale. Urist didn't recognise her at first, but realised that this must be Ibruk Udzon, without her helmet. After Uthardasël, the captain had decided to have her join the crew of Nïr Iroludos.

"Ibruk Udzon," Urist greeted her.

"Commander." She muttered a quick prayer and started eating. The two others, too, dug in, trying to put the day behind them. But their thoughts kept dwelling on it. Nevertheless, no words were spoken about it. Only wine was poured to douse the embers.

With the ring of a bell, the end of the second shift and the start of the third was announced. A crowd of about thirty dwarves filed in for either their first or last meal of the day. The crew of fifty-five dwarves worked in three shifts throughout the day, so as to keep morale high and dissatisfaction as low as possible - they couldn't afford a tantrum on a warship.

The dwarves filled the table, eating and socialising. There were many complaints about the food. It was of good quality, true, but even good things become bad if enjoyed too often. To raise the general mood, one dwarf, holding a stringed instrument, jumped on the table. He sang an old folk song, a tale of the downfall of a fortress. Despite the morbid subject, the melody was quite cheerful and catching.

 _Udos berdan äs legon,_

 _atöl tetóth stëtnin._

 _Sefol, idos ucat limul,_

 _mosot thad nin._

 _Ucat rur, ucat rur, ucat rur arelumid!_

 _Ucat rur, ucat rur, ucat rur, âmid!_

 _Udos ór ucat, bukét,_

 _idos ucat limul._

 _Thad-nir tomus liruk, ubas:_

" _Udos nog durad!"_

 _Ucat âm, ucat âm, ucat âm, nônub amid!_

 _Ucat âm, ucat âm, ucat âm, âmid!_

 _Thad-nir nônub udos liruk,_

 _Udos nônub thad._

 _Thad okab bardum liruk,_

 _titthal geshud ritan._

 _Nazush rur, nazush rur, nazush rur arelumid!_

 _Nazush rur, nazush rur, nazush rur âmid!_

The song ended with roaring laughter, many dwarves exspressing satisfaction at having listened to the musician. The foul mood from the failure Uthardasël was disspelled. The foul mood from eating the same thing again... well, not so much, but it did raise their spirits.

The meal was over. Those working third shift went to their posts. Those from the second shift went their ways, some going to the training room, some to the lowest deck to do some crafts or maintenace on their gear. Urist decided to just get some rest, like the captain suggested.

He wished everyone Kol the Moon of Mortality's protection, before retreating to the sleeping quarters. Those consisted of three paralel corridors, doors lining both sides of each. Nine doors a wall meant that every crew member had his own little room, save for the captain, who slept in his quarters. The rooms themselves were small, barely enough for a single bed.

Urist entered his room - middle corridor, first door on the right - and kicked his boots off, then fell on the bed. He thrashed around a bit, trying to find a comfortable position. Then some more, because the position wasn't comfortable enough. And then some more. But sleep just wouldn't come to him, no matter how hard he tried. Or perhaps because he tried.

His thoughts kept returning to the bald goblin with the smiley scar on his forehead. Urist had faced necromancers before, but none had left him so shaken. Perhaps it was his sinister last words, promising a Galaxy-wide massacre. Were they just the usual goblin empty threats? For some reason, the necromancer seemed to believe it.

Eventually, Urist fell asleep, into the arms of Kol Ïlon Tadar. But, she could not grant him a peaceful sleep. She could not protect him from night terrors. He saw faces. They gazed into his eyes accusingly. Familiar faces, who visited his dreams occasionally. But tonight, a new face joined the group – Ifin's.

* * *

It was the middle of the next day's first shift. Urist was in the training room, going through his combat drills. He couldn't get much sleep last night. The dead wouldn't let him. Ifin's death still lingered in his mind. He hoped he could make himself feel better by improving a skill.

"Hello, Commander Urist Emärzuden," Ibruk Udzon greeted him as she entered.

"Hello," the commander greeted back. "There's nothing like some good training."

The female nodded. "I agree completely."

"How about a spar?"

"Sure."

The two got into an unarmed fighting stance and started exchanging blows. Urist judged her punches to be strong, but her grapples needed work.

"How are you holding up?" he asked after a while, when they had both gotten into it.

"Well," she said, "Yesterday I watched my entire squad die. That left me so shaken."

"Aye, I know that feeling," Urist answered.

"What do you mean?"

"I know what it feels like to loose an entire squad. And it was all because of me."

She was silent as she pressed her attack. "Are you talking about Torfan? What exactly happened there?" And then, she found herself on the ground, the commander having thrown her.

"I lost control," Urist Emärzuden solemnly said.

Then, Ziril entered. "We're getting close to the Citadel."

They immediately made their way to the bridge. Jokespeaker had taken them through a relay and they were now cruising through the Widow system in the Serpent Nebula, the shutters open. The star, Widow, shone upon the dense nebula, the station's natural defense. It obscured the station from most observational instruments, including the naked eye.

Then, the cloud parted, and the deep-space station came into their view: the Citadel. A massive station, 102 million Urists (7,11 billion tonnes) of metal. Five 32 thousand Urists long arms stretched from a central ring 9 thousand Urists in diameter. At the centre of the ring, a single tower stood. The mighty Citadel fleet stood guard, comprised mostly of Hierarchy-made cruisers. The dwarves on the bridge admired the sight.

"Look at that ship!" Ibruk pointed at an asari dreadnought. "It's as big as a rashgurzuglar! I didn't know the Council types had ships that big!"

"That is the Destiny Ascension," Ziril explained. "Flagship of the Citadel fleet. A crew 10 000 strong, and more firepower than all the asari fleets combined."

Jokespeaker spat. "Asari firepower! Can't be that good if they need the turians to protect them."

"Look at that beast, helmsdwarf!" the elf shot back. "Those cannons could melt the hull of even the strongest warships of the dwarven fleets."

"An elf who knows craftsdwarfship?" Ibruk asked.

"Ibruk Udzon!" Urist warned.

The helmsdwarf typed on his typewriter, a message for the station's flight control, requesting the permission to land. It took a little while, before the reply welcomed them to the Citadel, directing them to dock 422.

* * *

 **Codex Galactica**

-The Citadel

Constructed by the Protheans, this colossal deep-space station serves as the capital of the Citadel Council. Gravity is simulated through rotation, and is a comfortable 0,93 Thessian G's on the Wards and a light 0,28 Thessian G's on the Presidium Ring.

It was discovered in 512 BCE, by asari explorers. A few centuries later, salarians joined the asari, and many other spacefaring races were discovered. The asari, with the help of the salarians, formed the Citadel Council, marking the start of the Common Era.

 **Saràmmelbil Misttar**

-Mestthos

This is a colossal deep-space station. All craftspasmanship is of the highest quality. It consists of the Ward arms, the Presidium ring and the Citadel tower. It serves as the capital of Citadel Space. For more knowledge on the Citadel, see Vîrgeshud Arodrigòth Aban, by Rovod Belasën.


End file.
